


Considerably Less Cannibalism

by LizaPod



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Hand Jobs, Hand porn, M/M, Mentions of sex work, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Shaving, Straight Razors, abuse of fitting room three, eyefucking, utter and complete filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizaPod/pseuds/LizaPod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a real, physical struggle to not stare like a dogger while Harry shrugs off his jacket and undoes his collar, sets his signet ring aside. He has detailed, minutely detailed, fantasies about unbuttoning that fucking collar. At least he’s not wearing the holster right now, or Eggsy’d be sprung already. “It’s time you learned the fine art of the straight razor shave.” </p><p>Eggsy gives him his best <i>you havin’ a fucking giggle, mate</i> eyebrows. “Like Sweeney Todd?” </p><p>Harry’s sigh is just bordering on melodramatic, but he’s also got that odd— Roxy calls it enigmatic—smile he gets when Eggsy trots out some unexpected bit of culture. "Yes, Eggsy, like Sweeney Todd."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Considerably Less Cannibalism

Eggsy had, until meeting Harry Hart, always tried to think of himself as a bloke of simple tastes and low expectations. All he really wanted out of life is for his mum and sister to be well-looked after, a pint, and a good regular fuck. He’d given up a fuck of a lot in order to work on getting the first one accomplished so he figured he deserved the second two when he could get them. And to be honest, he’d always been more particular about the pint than the fuck. Half the time he’s paying for the pint with money he’s earned from a boring, disappointing shag anyway.

After meeting Harry Hart, though. Well. _Well_.

The major problem he faces now, of course, is fucking doing something about it. He’s got the impression that Harry’s not going to go for his incredibly subtle jerk-of-the-head-towards-the-back-door routine or the get-pissed-at-a-party-and-lunge trick or even the direct route of dropping trou and presenting his arse in the ( _genuinely sexually arousing_ ) closet-armoury. No, Harry’s got Bond class and probably Bond girls, and he’s laying on the whole father-figure thing so thick it’s his own damn fault that Eggsy occasionally thinks of him as _daddy_ while he’s wanking.

And then there’s the whole delay what with Harry getting shot in the fucking head, and having to retrieve him from Kentucky a little worse for the wear, and then a big clean up around Kingsman headquarters—no, literally, there are bits of fucking _brain_ from where two of the other agents’ implants _blew the fuck up_ in the armoury—and Eggsy is almost too busy to even jerk off.

Almost. A lad’s never truly too busy to wank, especially when he’s got such prime fucking fodder as Harry, sitting in that fucking leather chair in his office with his collar undone and his perfect hair all in place and his fucking shoulder holster still on, lecturing Eggsy on the inherent superiority of French cuffs. He blames it on his newly elevated standards that he gets turned on by Harry pontificating about how to choose the right cufflink for any occasion.

\--

There’s a power vacuum in the world following Valentine’s failed attempt to cull humanity, so Eggsy and Roxy are out in the field more often than, _apparently_ , newly-minted Kingsmen would be. Merlin and Harry-as-new-Arthur tend to send them out together whenever possible, though, because Harry’s out of wetworks still, possibly for good, and they’re a bit short on senior Kingsmen who can be trusted to—as Merlin put it—supervise their development as agents in the field, or—as Eggsy puts it to Harry— _babysit_. Harry’s not happy about being out of the field, but he’s still a steady presence and a calm voice in Eggsy’s ear as he defuses bombs, takes out goons, and generally wreaks havoc on the plans of wannabe-megalomaniacs, none of whom appreciate his well-timed one-liners the way Valentine had.

Bastards.

Six months of masturbating to increasingly detailed fantasies about Harry later, it all comes to a head. He’s been camping out in Iceland, foiling a group of weirdly racist Scandiwegian eco-terrorists hellbent on holding some pipeline hostage, so he’s not been keeping up with the niceties of things like shaving every day or maintaining the perfect Hitler youth hair that Harry had had the barber give him. In his own defense, he had been both very busy pulling some epic violence on the fascist lumberjacks and it had been _really fucking cold_. So it’s not actually his fault that he looks a bit like some twat Shoreditch hipster with his hair all fucked out of place and what could quite accurately be referred to as heavy stubble by the time he rolls back into London headquarters for debriefing, and all he wants to do is go home, shower, and sleep for three days.

Debriefing Merlin via the hologram glasses takes so long he thinks his stubble may actually have transformed into a proper beard.

“I dunno about you, mate, but I’m fuckin’ knackered,” he says as soon as Merlin flickers out of view in his specs. He tosses the glasses onto the table and stretches in his chair. His back pops in like five places and he grimaces. “We done here? I need a shower.”

He’s not exactly expecting the look of mild disapproval Harry gives him as he folds his glasses more carefully and places them in his jacket pocket.

“Did Merlin forget to pack you a razor when he kitted you out?” Harry drawls, pushing back from the table. “Or did you decide to go native in Iceland?” 

“Oh, piss off, I had other things to worry about.” Eggsy stretches again before hauling himself out of the too-comfortable chair. “Seriously, Harry, can I go?”

“No, follow me. I have been, shall we say, remiss in parts of your education.” Harry gestures for him to follow, so Eggsy trudges along behind him with as much ill grace as he can muster—a substantial volume of ill grace which Harry ignores with much better grace—into the chamber of suits and secrets hidden in dressing room three. The door thunks shut behind them.

“Off with your jacket and shirt and up on the counter, if you would.” Harry takes the requested articles of clothing as Eggsy shucks them and hangs them neatly out of the way. Eggsy hops onto the narrow counter and slouches into himself, arms crossed over his chest against the chill in the air. It is a real, physical struggle to not stare like a dogger while Harry shrugs off his jacket and undoes his collar, sets his signet ring aside. He has detailed, _minutely detailed,_ fantasies about unbuttoning that fucking collar. At least he’s not wearing the holster right now, or Eggsy’d be sprung already. “It’s time you learned the fine art of the straight razor shave.”

Eggsy gives him his best _you havin’ a fucking giggle, mate_ eyebrows. “Like Sweeney Todd?”

Harry’s sigh is just bordering on melodramatic, but he’s also got that odd— Roxy calls it enigmatic—smile he gets when Eggsy trots out some unexpected bit of culture. He rifles through a drawer under the counter and pulls out a fine leather box and strap. Harry motions for him to open it. Inside are two folded straight razors, gleaming steel resting in visibly, disgustingly expensive fine cognac leather. Eggsy takes one out and opens it, testing the edge against his thumb.

“Yes, Eggsy, like Sweeney Todd. Only with considerably less cannibalism, I should think.” Harry’s rolling up his sleeves now, each movement precise without being fussy. Eggsy keeps his eyes on the razor and not Harry’s frankly erotic bare forearms; he’s never seen so much of Harry’s skin before, not even in the hospital. Harry takes the strap and hooks it over a convenient loop, then holds out his hand expectantly for the razor. Eggsy hands it over, watching in fascination as Harry begins stroking it against the felt side of the strap, back and forth.

“Stropping the blade realigns it, perfecting the edge after the last shave and must be done every time,” Harry lectures. “Otherwise, you may as well have shaved with one of those ghastly disposable toys.” He turns the strap over and repeats the process of running the blade up and down the smooth leather, checking it every few strokes until he’s apparently satisfied. The razor is set aside in its case. “Do make yourself useful and run the tap as hot as you can stand, please.”

He’s glad for the order, since it forces him to stop staring at Harry’s hands for a minute while he fusses with the tap. It’s just on the safe side of scalding when he stops dicking around with it and sits back. Harry douses a flannel in the water and wrings it out. Eggsy is only partly prepared for the heat of Harry’s fingers under his chin; he immediately begins coming up with a litany of excuses for everything from the way he can feel his heartbeat speeding up to the probably incredibly obvious flush in his face to how he almost resists the guiding pressure of Harry’s fingers just to see if he’ll use the whole hand to put Eggsy where he wants him. Instead, he obediently lets Harry tip his head back and press the wet cloth to his face. He leans back against the mirror and stares at the ceiling, willing his pulse back to normal before Harry notices that he’s getting all worked up over nothing.

Except it’s not nothing, because he’s so gone for Harry that even the most fleeting, perfunctory (another Roxy word) touches sends him reeling like a fourteen year old girl. 

The quiet rattle of whatever Harry’s setting up is soothing, like the rattle of Harry making breakfast in the kitchen had been the one night he slept over before everything went to shit; the night when he’d been half-convinced Harry was going to make a move and then _nothing_ except a gentlemanly helping hand to the guest bedroom after too many perfect martinis and the incidental brush of fingers on a teacup in the morning.

“Sit up straight, please,” Harry requests. He pulls the cloth from Eggy’s face and drops it to the side. “This is to prepare your skin for the closeness of the shave,” he says, and Eggsy drags up every ounce of self-control he possesses to present a cool façade while Harry places himself between Eggsy’s spread legs and begins to slowly massage oil into his skin. He very consciously maintains eye contact with the tile over Harry’s shoulder and breathes normally, filling his nostrils with the scent that, thank God, isn’t the same one that Harry wears. He’s having a hard enough time keeping his hands to himself as it is. Harry’s fingers move over his throat, thumbs—Eggsy refuses to think the word _caressing_ because that’s just asking for trouble—passing over his jugular in a manner that’s _just_ on the slow side for business-like and yet _just_ too quick to be lingering. Eggsy tries to think of how dangerous it is to have Harry’s trained-killer hands at his windpipe and not what it would be like if Harry used those hands to hold him down. It’s easier to not think about elephants on command.

It’s only when Harry’s fingers pass over his lips that his control slips between heartbeats. He takes a sharp breath. His lips part slightly with the instinct to kiss, to bite, to suck Harry’s perfect manicured fingertips. In an instant he catches himself and his eyes snap up from the safety of the tiled wall to meet Harry’s. If Eggsy had thought before about Harry pinning him down with those hands, it’s nothing to how the intensity of Harry’s gaze holds him in place.

He’s hyperaware of the pressure of Harry’s left palm against his neck, thumb on his jugular. Harry’s right hand on his jaw, index finger still pressed against Eggsy’s open lips. The scant inches between Harry’s hips and his thighs, how easy it would be to use this position to his advantage and drag Harry closer. Harry hasn’t blinked since Eggsy looked up and he feels like one of those birds hypnotized by a cobra, except no cobra has ever looked a bird like it wants to fuck it until it doesn’t remember its own name before.

And then Eggsy blinks, and his heart beats again, and Harry’s fingers are off his throat and his lips and he’s standing off to the side like nothing has happened. Like Eggsy’s heart’s not going as if he’s already been rode hard and put away wet. In fact, Eggsy is fairly certain that he has just experienced, for the first time, what it truly means to be _eyefucked_ , and Harry is whisking a badger brush in the most expensive shaving mug Eggsy’s ever seen like he’s alone in the room.

With great deliberation, Eggsy clasps his hands and sets them in his lap, thus serving the dual purpose of keeping them still and partly obscuring his crotch in the fucking _likely_ event that he gets hard as soon as Harry puts his hands back on him. He stares straight ahead and tries to remember the anti-stress-torture techniques Roxy had shown him to take the edge off; they don’t have time to work before Harry looms in his field of vision again.

That unbuttoned collar is going to be the fucking death of him.  

Apparently Harry has given up on the façade of schooling him in how to shave with the cutthroat, because he’s silent as he tilts Eggsy’s chin up and begins lathering his skin. The hand against his throat holding him still is possibly excessive, but Eggsy is definitely not going to complain. He will also never comment publicly about how he’s pretty sure Harry’s toying with a stray bit of hair at the nape of his neck in a way that’s sending shivers down his spine. Incorporate it heavily into his spankbank, yes, ever mention it to anyone ever, no.

Fuckin Christ, he’s getting to be as sad and repressed as the posh gits, getting sprung over Harry touching his fucking hair because he hasn’t gotten laid in so long.

“Hold still, Eggsy,” Harry says quietly. It cuts through Eggsy’s internal obsessing and drags his focus straight back up to meet Harry’s gaze. He’s holding the razor up just in the edge of Eggsy’s vision. Eggsy shifts his weight, just slightly, so he can stay perfectly still—so his trousers aren’t quite as tight and obvious across his junk—and gives Harry the barest nod as a go-ahead. The first stroke of the razor down his cheek sends goosebumps down his arms and chest. The second goes straight to his dick from the pressure of Harry’s fingers on his face and the sweep of lethally sharp steel on his skin. He stares at the faint furrow of concentration between Harry’s brows and breathes between the passes Harry makes on his cheeks, his jaw, his lips.

Harry’s fingers on his chin guide his head back, baring his throat for the last few sweeps of the razor. It’s not a particularly sharp angle, nor is he especially stretched, but it’s enough for him to put his hands to the counter for balance. He feels _exposed_ , taut and on edge under Harry’s skilled hands and the bright lights of the room. There is absolutely no hiding that he’s hard in his bespoke trousers now, with Harry standing between his thighs and his hands gripping the edge of the counter far harder than truly necessary to stay in place. Harry’s left hand is around the back of his neck by the last stroke, up his windpipe. Eggsy leans into it.

And then the razor clatters against the stainless steel of the countertop and Eggsy is still held in place with Harry’s fingers in his hair and Harry’s fucking eyes drilling into his. He swallows, once, _hard_ , as Harry very delicately wipes something off Eggsy’s cheek with his thumb.

“Ffffuckin’ _hell_ ,” Eggsy breathes out without thinking. Now that the razor’s gone from his throat he finds his breath coming faster, harder.

“Another pass, I think,” Harry says, cool as you like, like the hand he’s just been stroking Eggsy’s face with isn’t now resting well up on Eggsy’s fucking thigh and he’s not rubbing the smallest little fucking circles with his thumb against Eggsy’s fucking leg. “The tap, if you would.”

Eggsy fumbles for the hot water tap without looking. Harry takes a flannel from shelf behind him and runs it under the water. He wipes the remnants of shaving cream off Eggsy’s skin and fusses with making up a new lather. He cleans the razor. He never steps out from between Eggsy’s legs. And when he takes the badger brush to Eggsy’s face, his free hand settles low on Eggsy’s back, pulling him forward so his perch becomes precarious, arse on the edge of the counter. He has to bring his legs in, tight against Harry’s waist, to balance himself. He’s not quite rubbing his dick on Harry’s stomach, but it’s a close thing now.

When Harry takes up the razor again, his hand comes off Eggsy’s waist and Eggsy grabs for him in turn, suddenly off-balance and holding himself still with a fist full of Harry’s perfect white Turnbull & Asser.

“Steady,” Harry chides, but there’s no heat in it. No, Eggsy reconsiders as the razor sweeps up his cheek against the grain, there’s fucking heat in it, and it’s the kind of heat Eggsy wants to burn himself on as soon as there isn’t a cutthroat razor stroking his face. He lets go of his grip on Harry’s shirt, though, holding tight to the counter again instead.

The shave probably takes exactly the same amount of time as the first, as measured by the hands of their perfectly synchronized watches. Eggsy, however, with his heart beating like mad and his breathing timed between Harry’s expert strokes of the razor, feels like it takes twice as long or more. He hits a limit with last few passes of the razor against his jugular, with his head tipped back and Harry’s hand in his hair and his thighs clutching at Harry’s hips. There is no way they aren’t going to do _something_ about this. _This_ , whatever _this_ is that’s happening.

Harry leaves him like that, off-balance and tense, hand around the back of his neck holding him in place while he moves through whatever he has set up next. Eggsy can hear him cleaning the razor and setting it aside one handed. Harry ever-so-gently wipes his face clean again, and he’d complain about being babied except the way Harry’s ever-so-gently raking his nails against the nape of Eggsy’s neck is making it hard to do anything except try not to whine pathetically for more.

The distinctive clicksnap of a bottle cap opening is accompanied by the same rich woodsy-smoky-sex scent as the oil Harry used first. Finally Harry takes his hands off, leaving Eggsy feeling vaguely unanchored in the moments before they’re back, pressing it tenderly into his freshly-shaven throat and cheeks.  
  
And then a moment comes and goes away again, where Harry could have reasonably been finished and stepped away. They’re left with Eggsy’s thighs around Harry’s waist and Harry’s hands curled around Eggsy’s cheek and throat. Eggsy briefly considers his options, eyes locked with Harry’s. His hands have at some point and against his will found their way back to Harry’s shirt, clutching tightly enough that it’s come partially untucked. There is no possible way Harry is ignorant of how hard Eggsy is; there is very little doubt in his mind that Harry is not at least _mildly interested_ in the situation. He makes a decision.

“Jesus _fuck_ , are you gonna fuckin’ kiss me or what?” he says, tugging at Harry’s shirt.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever ask,” Harry answers, and despite looking as flawlessly calm and collected as ever, he sounds fucking _wrecked_ already. Eggsy is faintly pleased that Harry is apparently as wound up as he is, before Harry kisses him. It’s barely anything at first, just the briefest touch of lips. And then Harry’s hand is tightening in his hair and the other is gripping the curve of his arse and Eggsy learns first hand that Harry absolutely does not kiss like a gentleman. Eggsy’s kissed gentlemen on missions and they’re polite repressed fuckers, all of them, never taking any initiative without an apology first. No, Harry kisses like a nymphomaniac on death row. He’s all teeth and filth and strong hands urging Eggsy’s hips to rut against him, pulling his head back by his hair so he can press biting kisses to the shave-sensitive skin of his throat. Eggsy digs his heels into the backs of Harry’s thighs and doesn’t care that he’ll leave marks from the shoes, rolls his hips against Harry’s stomach and groans like the rentboy he hasn’t been in a year when Harry kisses him again.

“Let’s do something about this, shall we,” Harry murmurs, when Eggsy’s been kissed stupid and breathless. He’s undoing Eggsy’s belt with _torturous_ slowness, pulling it open hole by hole so each little tug puts pressure on his cock and makes him gasp. Eggsy leans backwards until he meets the cool glass of the mirror, feeling half as though he’s having an out-of-body experience as he watches Harry open his trousers like he’s unwrapping some priceless piece of art. He shudders, one long whole-body shiver, when gun-calloused fingers pull his non-regulation briefs down and his cock out. He watches Harry take up the oil used so very recently for its intended shaving purposes and pour it into his palm for a completely off-label use. And he moans low and fucking needy when Harry finally wraps slick fingers around his cock.

Harry works his hand slowly, so slowly. Eggsy can hardly take his eyes off the sight of Harry’s fingers on his dick, except when he can’t keep his eyes focused or even open from the fucking overwhelming sensation. Harry seems like he’s _exploring_ , taking his time with every firm twist and stroke and caress. Eggsy grabs for Harry’s wrist, trying to force him to speed up, but Harry resists his gritted-out pleas and keeps the steady pace. Instead, he slides his arm around Eggsy’s waist and hauls him forward so he’s pressed fully against Harry’s chest, so their hands between them are dragging against Eggsy’s stomach. Eggsy lets his face drop into the curve of Harry’s neck, taking in the faded scent of his cologne and sweat with each panting breath, clinging to his broad shoulders with his free hand. Harry only gives him a moment to breathe, pulling his head up so Harry can kiss him again, and again, open mouthed and sloppy and greedy.

It’s only when Eggsy can feel his orgasm about to come, with his balls tight and his cock leaking all over Harry’s hand and his vision going a bit blurry around the edges, that he drags together his last remaining brain cells to warn Harry. It’s only then that Harry’s strokes speed up, jerking him roughly through it as Eggsy groans and shakes apart in his grip, kissing his cheek, his ear, his jaw while Eggsy’s too uncoordinated to reciprocate.

“Worth the fuckin’ wait,” Eggsy drawls when he’s finally got his brain back online. Having cleaned his hands, Harry is occupied with exploring Eggsy’s neck, returning again and again to the same patch of skin under his jaw. Eggsy drags his fingers through Harry’s fucked up hair, fucking it out of place even more, and admires the effect dazedly while he tries to catch his breath.  
  
“I suppose you’ll need a few moments before continuing,” Harry says, conversationally, like he’s not giving Eggsy a hickey and idly drawing circles with his thumb around Eggsy’s nipple. Eggsy considers his options for a second time, and comes to a decision.

“I’ll blow you, yeah?” he says, and loses his smirk in a gasp when Harry bites him. He’s validated, so fucking validated, by the sudden tension across Harry’s shoulders at the suggestion, and the way Harry’s fingers dig into his chest for a moment. “And see where it goes from there.”

Harry steps back from the counter, finally giving Eggsy a decent view of how his cock is straining at the front of his trousers, half-hidden by the shirtfront Eggsy had untucked earlier. He’s moneyed debauchery personified with his undone collar and rolled up sleeves and ridiculous sex hair as he pulls Eggsy down off the counter. He very carefully tucks Eggsy’s cock back in his trousers, though he leaves them unzipped, and then jerks his head towards the gun closet.

“I’ll not have you on your knees in a toilet for my benefit,” he says, and saunters over to the low bench like he doesn’t have a massive fucking erection. Eggsy tucks the bottle of shaving oil into his pocket and follows with much less dignity, resisting the urge to point out that it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Instead, he takes in the sight of Harry sitting on the plaid—black watch tartan, his tailor’s training corrects—bench like he hasn’t a care in the world. Now that he knows he can, he thinks nothing of leaning in and kissing Harry before dropping to his knees, getting a smile in return that does odd things to his gut and his heartrate.  
  
He doesn’t break into Harry’s slacks with the same care and reverence that Harry had his; he’s got neither the patience nor the inclination to be particularly reverent when he’s gagging for it. Harry’s already got a hand on the back of Eggsy’s head by the time Eggsy has his fly open and his cock out. Eggsy wets his lips and looks up at Harry through his lashes, gives him a little wink. Harry’s just calling him a _cheeky bugger_ when Eggsy goes down on him, cutting him off with the judicious application of suction. He’s rewarded with Harry’s hand tightening on his skull and a choked off _fuck_.

God, he loves it when Harry swears.

Eggsy takes his time. He’s been thinking about this for ages, he has, since the first time he watched Harry dealing out violence in the Black Prince, and he wants to enjoy this. He lets the warmth and wet of his mouth do most of the work, not sucking or putting any flash on it. Harry doesn’t seem to be particularly inclined to hurry things along either, just stroking his hair and murmuring quiet encouragement. Eggsy pulls off and licks his lips again. Harry follows the path of his tongue with his thumb. He lingers at the corner of Eggsy’s mouth, rubbing gently where his cock has been stretching his mouth. Eggsy turns and catches it between his teeth, sucking harder on Harry’s thumb than he has his cock. He looks up at Harry to gauge his reaction.

Harry is staring down at him intently. His eyes are blown black, all pupil, and he’s actually faintly flushed, a fact that Eggsy takes in with great pride. He lets Harry’s thumb slide out of his mouth and kisses his palm before getting back to blowing him. He also dips into his pocket, pulling out the bottle of oil he’d lifted before. Harry’s hand in his hair is more insistent now, flexing as Eggsy drags his tongue over the head of his cock. Eggsy shifts and squirms until he can get his trousers down off his arse without pulling off. He clumsily gets oil on his fingers and reaches behind himself.

The first finger he presses up into his own arse makes him moan around Harry’s cock. There’s an echoing groan from Harry and a pull on his hair. The angle is terrible but he’s had worse, and if he doesn’t give himself enough time before shoving another finger up there, it’s worth it for Harry’s reaction.

“You filthy little tart,” Harry groans, and he sounds like—well, Eggsy’s not going to go with _affectionate_ , but at the very least, he seems _well fucking pleased_ with Eggsy’s filthiness and/or tartiness. Whatever it is that’s coloring his voice, it doesn’t make Eggsy’s skin crawl, like it might have done with someone less _Harry_ , but instead settles low in his belly somewhere in the vicinity of his rapidly hardening dick. Eggsy works himself open with one hand and works what bits of Harry’s cock he’s not got in his mouth with the other.

Above his head, Harry murmurs similar words of praise and encouragement, liberally interspersed with the kind of vulgarities that would make a Marine blush. Eggsy, not having completed basic training and therefore not actually a Marine, instead finds Harry’s swearing fucking arousing and has to refrain from rubbing his dick on Harry’s calf like a horny puppy. He contains himself to moaning and drooling around Harry’s cock until Harry gives him a sharp order to stop.

He’s barely got time to register the command and relinquish the dick in his mouth and fingers in his arse before Harry is hauling him up bodily. He ends up straddling Harry’s thigh with his trousers all tangled around his balls, his arms draped bonelessly around Harry’s neck.

“Fuck me,” Eggsy drools, just before Harry fills his mouth with fingers and he sucks instinctively.  
  
“Was that a request, an order, or merely an interjection?” Harry asks, when he’s done having Eggsy slick up his fingers with spit and Eggsy can actually answer again.  
  
“All of the above?” It would be mildly distressing how calm Harry is, except his breathing is as harsh as it is regular, and his hands are no longer gentle when they grope his arse. Eggsy moans, whorishly as he pleases, when Harry’s fingers slide into him. He grinds his dick against Harry’s stomach as best he can to underscore the imperative nature of his request.

“How would you like me to fuck you, Eggsy?” Harry’s got three fingers in him, twisting and torturing him by not _quite_ being what he wants. Harry kisses him so sweetly that it’s almost like he’s not leaving fingerprint-shaped bruises on Eggsy’s arse. “Ask politely, my dear boy, and it’s yours.”

Eggsy considers. He’s spoiled for choices, really, with a wealth of material to draw on from months of thinking about this moment, and all he can really focus on is how he _definitely_ wants Harry to stay just as dressed as he is. He struggles to articulate this with Harry’s teeth tugging at his ear but eventually gets his point across. He even manages _please_.

Harry rewards him with a kiss, then urges him to his feet. He leans down to fetch the oil then stands as well, crowding Eggsy backwards until his back hits glass. Eggsy realizes first that it’s the full length mirror, and second that Harry must have been watching him fingerbang himself from behind. His trousers and pants are unceremoniously pulled down. Harry squeezes his arse with both hands, rutting against him for the briefest moment before Eggsy finds himself face-to-face with his own sweaty, disheveled, fucked out reflection. He lets his head fall back against Harry’s shoulder, clutching at the bare skin of Harry’s arm across his chest and tries to catch his breath.

He doesn’t have much time to get his breathing back in order before Harry’s cock is sliding into him. Eggsy chokes on his own moan and Harry ruthlessly fucks into him, kissing up Eggsy’s neck until he’s plundering Eggsy’s mouth like a fucking asspirate. Eggsy quite happily submits to the onslaught, pinned as he is between Harry’s dick in his arse and the arm across his chest and the chill of the mirror.

Eggsy is willing to admit, privately, that maybe he had some ideas about what would happen after joining a super-secret spy agency run by posh twats, mostly involving martinis and blond girls with big tits. The odd anally-inclined Scandinavian princess, at a stretch. What he didn’t expect, although he’s definitely not complaining, is to end up face to a mirror with his new-found father figure tattooing his name on Eggsy’s arse- metaphorically, of course.

“I don’t remember this bit in _My Fair Lady_ ,” he grits out, and laughs breathlessly and idiotically at Harry’s exasperated groan behind him.

“It’s a deleted scene,” Harry snipes back, punctuating his sarcasm with a punishing shove.

Harry doesn’t fuck like a gentleman, or how Eggsy had imagined a gentleman might fuck. He kicks Eggsy’s feet further apart, rides him hard and eyefucks him in the mirror even as he’s drilling him from behind. Eggsy can only hold on for dear life, grabbing at Harry’s thigh and panting helplessly into Harry’s neck, too gone to even watch their obscene-as-fuck reflection. Harry murmurs praise into his ear, biting his neck and calling him _darling boy_ and _slut_ and _perfect_ and sliding his fingers into Eggsy’s open gasping mouth.

When Harry’s hand closes around his cock, with fingers slick with Eggsy’s own spit, Eggsy comes like a teenager—without warning and whining Harry’s name. Harry jerks him through it, again, fucking him up onto his toes with the force of his thrusts. Eggsy reaches up and grabs Harry’s hair, pulling him into something that’s intended to be a kiss but is too uncoordinated, too sloppy to really deserve the name. Harry comes not long after, marking Eggsy’s arse as his territory with a harsh groan.

They stay tangled and panting and sweaty, leaning against the mirror, for long, _long_ moments. Eggsy mouths the curve of Harry’s jaw and shivers when Harry pulls out. In the mirror he can see the beginnings of a hickey forming on his neck, which Harry kisses before turning him around. His usually perfect hair is a disaster and Eggsy doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen Harry break a sweat before, and it’s so fucking sexy that Eggsy’s exhausted dick makes a feeble attempt at twitching. He pointlessly straightens Harry’s collar, like that’ll make any difference in how disheveled Harry looks, and doesn’t bother to hide his grin or his weirdly twisting stomach at Harry’s answering smile.

And then the after effect of wild bareback anal sex ruins the tender moment, as semen slides down the back of Eggsy’s thigh and makes him shudder. “That is _rank_ , Harry,” he complains, mostly on principle, and wonders if he sounds as fucking besotted to Harry as he does to himself.

“My apologies,” Harry drawls, and he removes himself momentarily to the toilet before returning with a damp cloth. He’s gentle as he cleans between Eggsy’s thighs and pulls his trousers back into place, back to being almost careful with Eggsy, like he’s afraid Eggsy’ll spook or something. “Is that better?”  
  
“Much, ta,” Eggsy says, returning the favor of fixing Harry’s slacks. He even tucks Harry’s shirt back in, taking the opportunity to blatantly feel him up. He almost regrets not getting Harry’s shirt off, and he realizes they haven’t actually said anything about what _this_ is. He flounders in his own head, struggling to to come up with anything witty or surprising or charming to carry himself through the discombobulation. And then the hickey catches his eye in the mirror, and he points to it. “Y’know, I thought you said there weren’t gonna be any cannibalism.”

“No, I said there was going to be _considerably less_ cannibalism.” He very delicately presses his thumb into the mark and makes Eggsy whine before going to Eggsy’s half of the closet to fetch a fresh shirt and tie. “I perhaps should have been more clear about that, quite sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. Indeed, he sounds fucking pleased with himself.

Harry helps Eggsy into his shirt, one sleeve at a time, then leans in to kiss him as he buttons him up. It’s sweeter than before, and it absolutely does not make Eggsy’s knees go a bit funny and he definitely doesn’t moan a little when Harry fastens the last button at his throat. “Now, it’s nearly tea time,” he says lightly as he drapes the tie around Eggsy’s neck, deftly loops it into a flawless Windsor. “You should go let your mother know you aren’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Yeah, she’s kinda paranoid still after the whole, _you taking me off to spy-camp without so much as a phone call_ thing,” Eggsy agrees, trying for casual. He reaches for Harry’s arms and carefully fixes his sleeves, unrolling the cuffs until he’s all hidden away again.

“And then when you’re done reassuring her, you’ll come to dinner with me.” Harry catches him by the chin and holds him still to push his hair back into place as best as he can, a task made difficult without the aid of styling products and the fact that Eggsy’s hair is damp with sweat.

“Your place?”

“Of course not. I can hardly ask you if you’d like to come back to mine and look at my etchings if we’re already fucking there, can I?” Harry says archly, and Eggsy laughs like a fucking idiot when Harry winks at him.

God, he fucking loves it when Harry swears.

**Author's Note:**

> Some among you may recognize the description of Colin's kissing as given by Matthew Goode has been snuck in there; it was too good not to use.


End file.
